


My Comfort and my Lullaby

by rumpelsnorcack



Series: Make me feel at ease [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-11 06:59:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8964463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumpelsnorcack/pseuds/rumpelsnorcack
Summary: For the first time in a long while, Jack felt like he wasn’t being pulled out of his skin.  He felt settled, calm.  The next year was important, but Jack believed.  He had this.  He could do it. Jack's life from when he starts Samwell and how he copes with all the changes.   aka, Jack gets himself into a nice routine -- which is then disrupted by a very chirpy, very spinny new team mate.





	1. My home has never felt this far

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to The Basics and the Simple Life, mostly in that they were conceived at the same time because of the same song (hence the titles). The styles are different but they deal with similar ideas of coming to accept and understand yourself -- that one about Bitty and this one about Jack. They don't need to be read in any particular order, but there are some conversations which will be the same in both.
> 
> I intend to post roughly once a week until it's done because the later parts are much less polished than the earlier ones. Currently it's sitting at 7 chapters, but as the first one has already been split into three that may be subject to change.
> 
> Also, this is mostly inside Jack's head and Jack has anxiety, and of course that affects him. So, yeah, just be aware that that's a thing that is mentioned relatively frequently, particularly in the earlier chapters.

Jack could feel the anxiety curling in his veins, twisting itself through every corner of his body. It wasn’t battering at his defences the way it had been too often in the last few months as he prepared to come to school -- so far from home and security -- but it was there. Of course, it never really left him, remaining his constant companion regardless of what he did. Today, though, it felt worse than usual, even if it wasn’t forcing itself to the forefront the way it did at times of high stress. Jack’s mother, bless her, was trying to help, but hearing her on the other end of the line asking yet again if he had everything he needed, if he was settling in, if he had made friends, was pulling it further towards the front. The concern, the worry, he could hear in her voice twisted something into his gut and made his hands shake.

“Oui, Maman. I’m fine,” he insisted, trying to push the anxious knot in his chest down and away. He almost succeeded. “I have practice tomorrow, and before then I have a lot of stuff to unpack. I’ve met some of the team and they seem nice enough. I’ll call you tomorrow when I know more. Okay?”

Jack could hear her sigh on the other end of the line. “I’m sure you’re right, little one, but I can’t help worrying. It’s not every day your baby goes off to college, after all.”

“Maman!” Jack laughed, the sound almost alien to him as the anxiety reached out its tendrils again. “I’m not little anymore, and … it’s not like you don’t know what it’s like here.”

“Oh I know, baby. That’s what worries me.”

Now Jack could hear the teasing note in her voice, and he could feel the anxiety in his veins starting to retreat a little. His mother’s genuine warmth reached him before the anxiety could take full hold of his body. They talked for a few more minutes and by the time he hung up the call, Jack was feeling better. It _was_ a huge thing he was doing, after all. He was allowed to feel nervous being so far from home, all alone for the first time since … well, since. But, he told himself firmly, a few nerves were one thing. A few nerves didn’t mean there was any need to let it all get to him, no matter how overprotective his mother was.

To that end, Jack started setting up his dorm room -- the familiarity of putting his things out around him making him feel much more comfortable. The simple act of putting his stamp on the room was comforting, giving him a measure of peace in this alien place. By the time he’d finished, the room would probably look spartan to someone else, but to Jack it felt like home. 

His ‘be better’ poster was the only thing adorning the walls, but there were touches of his old life lying around the edges of the space. His own comforter covered the bed, and the sheets his mother had chosen for him when he’d first come home from rehab were tucked onto the bed, soft and pliant with use. His favourite books lined the shelf, set out precisely in height order, and his laptop sat carefully on the desk. The chair the university had provided was now in a basement storage area, and his own chair from home was pushed neatly into the space under the desk, perfectly aligned in the middle of the space.

By the time he laid the covers back ready for bed that night and slid into the comfort of the sheets that still smelled faintly of the washing powder Maman used, Jack was almost feeling like his old self. His racing thoughts had been tamed through the actions of setting his things out in a way that felt homely and comfortable. More at ease than he’d felt when on the phone with his mother, Jack managed to fall asleep feeling almost content.

 

As worried as Jack had felt the previous evening, it was nothing compared to the stabs of anxiety that hit him and twisted knots into his gut as he entered Faber for the first time the next day. It had been a long time since he’d felt judged for his hockey, and he’d thought he was ready to face it again. However, when he pushed his way into the locker room and found himself face to face with a whole sea of eyes all turned his way, Jack froze. 

After several long seconds, he forced his feet to move him towards the cubby that had a shirt with his name on it. Jack put one foot in front of the other, and focused only on his goal, in an attempt to ignore the curious gazes of his new teammates. The soft murmurs he could hear were almost worse than the silence that had descended when he’d come through the door.

Jack jumped as a mop of hair and a toothy grin landed in his personal space. The sudden appearance of the guy startled Jack out of his stupor and he let out a breathy, “shit,” making the guy’s smile slip and a crease appear between his eyes. Jack’s heart was slamming in his chest and the anxious knot had leapt with his increased heart rate, leaving Jack shaking a little in its wake.

“Oh, man, sorry. I just wanted to say hi - fellow rookie and all. I’m … uh, Shitty. That right, brah?” the guy said, looking at the team around him and getting a few nods in return.

He turned back to Jack and stuck his hand out. When Jack looked at it in bewilderment, he took Jack’s in his own and shook it forcefully before pulling him into a bone crushing hug.

“Not rookies, boys. Frogs, and don’t you forget it,” a voice off to the side said, amusement clear in the tone. “Shitty, Zimmermann, we’re just doing some warm ups today, then a few drills. Basically just getting used to the ice again. That work for you guys?”

Nodding, Jack let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He got his stuff out of his cubby and by the time he was dressed, everyone was immersed in their own preparations and no-one was even glancing his way. His heart rate had returned to normal, and the anxious knot had subsided a little.

Shitty chattered away beside him, pulling his gear on perfunctorily, but never intruding into Jack’s personal space again. It was … nice, Jack thought, and the banter made him smile. By the time they got out onto the ice he’d pushed his worries away and just focused on hockey. The familiar patterns calmed him, and reminded him that he was good at this -- he knew this stuff. It was in his blood, and it was something he _could_ do well. No matter what else happened, Jack would always have hockey. And wasn’t that a blessing after all he’d been through?

 

Jack quickly settled into a routine at Samwell. Shitty wormed his way into Jack’s life and his affections almost immediately. He was easy to be with, and while not calm he had a way of seeing through Jack’s fears and helping him put them into perspective. His brash, overbearing personality fit well with Jack’s own more reticent one, even though on paper it appeared they had very little in common. Hardly a day went by without Shitty unobtrusively turning up at Jack’s dorm room with some reason or other why they had to hang out. He would drop his pants, fling himself onto Jack’s bed and look at him with a winning grin.

“C’mon, brah. Get that sexy ass over here and watch this movie with me. My roommate’s a total asshole and won’t let me hang loose. Who the hell is he to tell me that pants are essential attire in my own room? Societal norms’ll kill us if we give into them.”

Startled, Jack allowed himself to be drawn into his bed to snuggle with this force of nature who had blown into his life. He was glad he did. Shitty never asked anything of him during those times, except for his friendship, which Jack willingly gave. They soon became a fixture around the campus - Shitty lecturing everyone he could find on the evils of conformity, and Jack sitting back and watching in amusement. He never had to speak when he and Shitty were out, but he found himself enjoying the company.

Shitty made Jack’s life better in more ways than he could count, and Jack thanked his lucky stars most days that he had forced his way inside Jack’s defences that first fateful day. Even naked in Jack’s bed, Shitty wasn’t ever intrusive in a way that felt invasive. 

College itself was tough at first, though -- the unfamiliarity of classes and assignments caused spikes in Jack’s anxiety that took time to get under control. As the seasons passed, however, and classes became familiar and then routine, Jack found his anxiety dropping off a little. It peaked again only at the culmination of the hockey season when they were eliminated from competition and he couldn’t help the nagging fear that it was his fault -- that whatever had led this team to choose him had dissipated, and that they were all secretly wishing they’d never invited him to play here.

By contrast, Jack’s classes were easy by this point. In class there was no-one else to let down. If he studied hard, Jack was able to get good grades and as long as he put in a little effort every day, the work itself wasn’t overwhelming. There was something comforting in knowing that if he did the work, he would achieve the goal. In hockey there was an opposition, fighting just as hard as he was to win. Sometimes that opposition managed it, and those times were clogged with recriminations and self-doubt. In class, however, there was just him. It was peaceful. Jack found he rather liked college life, once he’d managed to build a routine around himself.

By the end of his freshman year, the only thing that Jack found really stressful was finding his feet on the team. He was playing great hockey, yes. He could objectively tell that. And yet, he never felt like he was great enough. He managed to control himself enough that he didn’t have any anxiety attacks over it, but he always wondered whether he was truly a part of the team. He always found it hard to be with the guys. They laughed and joked around -- calling each other ‘dickhead’ and ‘bro’ and wrestling each other in the locker room while teasing each other about girls and hangovers -- and Jack never felt like he could join in. His attempts to joke were awkward and always met with tolerant smiles, but never real camaraderie. The guys would smirk at him, pat him on the back and then go back to their own groups. Only Shitty ever got close to Jack; the others all kept a distance. Jack felt awkward and ill at ease whenever he allowed himself to think about it. That his awkwardness then led to spikes in his anxiety that made him feel even more alienated and out of place just made things worse. The more anxious he got, the more tense he got and the more tense he got, the worse his jokes were and so it went in circles until Jack was certain everyone except Shitty was merely tolerating his presence.

It came as a real shock to Jack, then, when the team voted him to be captain in his second year.

“You can’t … you can’t be serious. I can’t do this,” he whispered, half to himself, when his name was called.

Shitty laughed, and clapped him on the back.

“Brah. I know you’re an idiot at times, but trust us. We know what we’re doing.”

Jack stumbled to the front and stammered out some sort of acceptance of the role while Johnson, Berger and Shitty all hollered in the background.

While being made captain alleviated some of the fears Jack had that he was just being tolerated on the team (despite knowing deep in his heart that he genuinely was the best they had), it also caused him the greatest anxiety attack he’d had since coming to Samwell. 

He couldn’t. Couldn’t do it. His breath squeezed in his chest and he shook as he tried to push it away. This was a huge mistake -- he couldn’t handle the pressure. What if … if … what if he failed again, went too far again? The thing sitting in his chest squeezed harder, and Jack found himself gasping for breath. He lost all cognisance of his surroundings, and when he could finally locate himself again he felt his body shaking with the effort.

The shaking didn’t stop for a long time, and even then Jack found himself still slightly breathless when he picked up the phone to call his mother. The familiar post-attack exhaustion was starting to seep into his bones, but the need to talk to his mother was more pressing.

“Maman. I … I …”

“Oh Jack. Sweetheart. What’s wrong?” 

Jack could hear the fear in her voice, the breathy pitch as she tried to keep herself from panic.

“Nothing. Non. It’s … I’m fine. Just. Anxiety attack.” He heard her gasp on the other end of the line, and he rushed to finish his thought, to stop her from worrying. “It’s over now. But I … they made me captain, Maman. Me. I …”

“Jack, baby. I know you’re worried.” He huffed out a laugh at that understatement, and he could hear the smile in her voice as she continued. “But they chose well. They did. You’re good at this, baby, and they know it. You have support. The coaches have your back, you can talk to your papa any time. You’re not alone, okay? Okay? You’re going to be fine.”

Jack let out a shaky breath. “Thanks, Maman. For everything.”

“I’m so proud of you. You’re so strong, you know that? And captain - that’s a big compliment, and one you deserve. You deserve it so much. So you go on and enjoy it, okay? Can I tell your papa? He’s going to be so proud too.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you can. I’m … I … you really think I can do it?”

“Baby, I know you can do it.”

Jack smiled, feeling the last vestiges of his anxiety retreat to their normal levels. They talked for a few more minutes, and by the time he got off the phone, Jack felt confident enough to head back out to Shitty’s room and be hugged to death. He was tired, so tired he wanted to drag his body into bed and sleep for hours, but he needed human contact. Jack found he was actually almost content, and despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t keep a grin off his face when Shitty yelled that he was ‘the motherfucking captain, brah’ and tried to kiss his feet.

After that, the end of Jack’s first year passed in something of a blur, and he found himself at home in Montreal for the summer, with his mother’s fussing over him and his father’s gruff and cheerful enthusiasm merely grating counterpoints to what he was now seeing as his old life. It was weird being back here. This place had always been home -- a place of comfort even when things had been at their hardest. But now, after just one year, Jack was finding himself at odds here. 

It reminded him too much of the past. His younger self echoed too strongly in the corners of rooms he entered, and in the worry lines around his parents’ eyes. There was too much here that shouted ‘failure’ at him. Jack found himself with anxious curls twisting through his stomach at odd times, and he could tell his mother was concerned about him.

“Is everything okay, baby? You seem tense,” she asked one day when they were getting dinner ready.

“Oui, I’m fine.” Jack said, then sighed. He could feel the disbelief in his mother’s glance, without even looking at her, and he knew she wasn’t going to accept what he was saying. “Okay, fine.” He took a breath, and looked her in the eye. “I’m just … it’s hard being back here, Maman.”

“Oh?”

To her credit, Jack’s mother didn’t let any sadness or dismay show in her voice. It reflected only concern. He closed his eyes in relief.

“There are so many memories. It’s just … hard. Samwell has been like a new start, and …”

“And?”

“And it helped me realise how difficult things had been here. After, well, you know.”

His mother squeezed his shoulder, then pulled him in for a hug.

“It’s okay, baby. I understand. I’m just happy you’ve got somewhere that feels right for you.”

“I do, Maman, and it does. It’s been nice.”

Jack felt himself smiling at her as she released him, feeling content for the first time since he got back here.

The rest of the trip was good, but by the end of the summer Jack was yearning for Samwell in a way he hadn’t felt for any place in what seemed like years. Getting back felt like coming home, and the first, ‘Brah! You’re here!” from Shitty made Jack grin in a way he knew he actually hadn’t in years.

 

Jack’s second year at Samwell was a lot like his first, though there was the added strangeness of moving into the haus with Shitty, and all the responsibilities that came with being captain. Johnson, who lived across the hallway from him, was weirdly optimistic about Jack’s future but was also quiet and considerate of Jack’s need for privacy. The other guys in the haus were more bro-ish than Jack was used to, but they were nice decent guys and he felt at home here almost as easily as he had at his old dorm room.

Jack’s routines were all in place very swiftly, and he felt a comfort in being back at Samwell. His classes passed quickly and easily, and for once hockey seemed to be coming naturally to the team. Their new D-men, Ransom and Holster, were sparking together and Jack’s line worked clinically together -- they weren’t flashy or invigorating, but they got the job done. Jack found that a comfort, too. Everything was predictable, and Jack found his anxiety easy to control in this environment. 

The rare losses that they suffered did make Jack’s anxious knots flare up, and the tendrils that always curled around his body would stab out at him, sometimes leaving him shaking in their wake. But overall, he found his life manageable. Shitty helped, as always. He would sit with Jack in a non-judgemental way whenever he felt the worries closing in -- his easy going ways helping Jack deal with the stresses that came with each loss. 

“Brah, you killed it out there today,” Shitty chirped cheerfully as he shimmied into Jack’s room one day after a particularly hard defeat.

“I guess.” Jack sighed as he looked at Shitty, who was already down to his boxers and clambering onto Jack’s bed.

“You guess? Jack, my bro. My man. You’re a legend in my own home. I covet that ass and its fabulous hockey-playing body so hard it hurts. When you gonna let me keep it forever?”

“Never. Shitty, stop.” The last was because Shitty had pulled him onto his bed to be cuddled and had him in an octopus hold.

“I can’t help it, brah. You’re born to be my cuddle buddy, and I can’t fight destiny.”

By this point, Jack was laughing and had forgotten to keep listing all the reasons why he must have been the one to bring the team down.

Despite Shitty’s eternal optimism, however, Jack still felt, at times, that each loss _was_ a reflection on him -- as a player and as captain -- and that he had to do more, be better, to live up to the hopes everyone around him still had for his hockey. He had to do more to be good enough, for himself, so that he could allow himself to feel like he had a shot at the NHL as he’d always dreamed. No matter how much Shitty tried to convince him otherwise, Jack always harboured doubts about truly being good enough to be accepted on the team -- particularly if they weren’t winning. That he was the captain just made the whole situation worse.

By the end of the year, they had made a solid effort in hockey. They hadn’t quite made it all the way, but they’d done a good enough job that Jack didn’t feel like a total failure. His captainship delivered modest results, results they could build on next year. The ever-present nagging feeling that he wasn’t quite good enough never went away, but his anxiety had stopped spiking over it. Jack thought he still had a shot at the NHL -- so long as the team performed as well, or better, next year. He decided to allow himself to take a break when he went home, but he told himself firmly that the break was only to be for a few weeks. The team had to do better, be better next year. _He_ had to be better. And he couldn’t afford to take a long break right now.

 

When he finally got home, Jack didn’t find it as jarring or oppressive as he had after his first year. He was more settled in his own skin now, and so the memories whispering in the corners of the rooms didn’t affect him as much. He found the summer pretty enjoyable, particularly the times spent conversing with his father about the role of captain and the strengths he brought to the position. Their conversations made him feel better, and he thought he might actually be able to do this. Being voted captain twice in a row was a compliment, and one he started to allow himself to believe he deserved. His mother seemed less worried about him; the worry lines around her eyes were less pronounced and she smiled and laughed with him more often. 

“I’m so proud of you, Baby,” she said one day as they relaxed outside in the sun. “You seem a lot happier now.”

Jack smiled. “I am happy, Maman. I … this feels better now.”

“We’re so pleased, Jack. Your dad and I. It’s great that things are coming together for you.”

“They really are,” Jack said as he laid his head back against the lounger and let the warmth of the day seep into his skin. 

It was actually true, he thought later as he prepared for sleep. This place wasn’t ‘home’ anymore, not the way it had been for so much of his life. But it didn’t feel alien the way it had last summer, either. His two years at college had flown by, but they’d allowed Jack to grow and realise he could have a place somewhere, even if he was sometimes still baffled that anyone would want him. Finding a place that felt right meant so much, and it had provided a balance to Jack’s life which meant he could step back from the memories surrounding him and just enjoy being with his parents in their space. It was nice. His life was nice, and Jack looked forward to the coming year being just as nice.


	2. Down to my skin and bone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with the previous chapter, there are fairly frank references to jack's anxiety and how it affects him. If that's a problem for you, I wouldn't advise reading on.

Despite Jack’s growing confidence in himself and his abilities, the idea of standing at the front of the group of frogs for the first time still made his anxiety flare up at the start of the next year.  He had to take several deep, steadying breaths to settle the tendrils twisting through his veins before he was able to bring himself to push into the room where they, and the rest of the team, were waiting for him.

Jack took another deep breath as he surveyed the new frogs before him.  He had prepared for this moment, going over strategies for dealing with new players with his father, and getting a feel for how his current team were set.  The coaches looked maybe a tiny bit grumpy when they saw him appearing in their offices in the week before the frogs arrived, but they discussed his ideas with him with every appearance of civility and sometimes even enthusiasm.  It helped, in this moment when he was face to face with another new group of people.

It also helped that these frogs looked, if possible, more nervous than he did.  Unlike Ransom and Holster when they started, many of these kids were quiet and nervy.  He could see one or two of them whispering behind their hands to each other, eyes big as saucers as they stared at him with what he was coming to recognise as awe.  Jack sighed as he looked over the rest of them.  They were the usual mix of reserved and wide eyed, and enthusiastic and chatty.  The one odd man out was a small blond one -- a small blond one carrying a pie, of all things.  He looked as anxious as Jack felt, and was looking around as if he couldn’t believe he was here at all.  Jack shared the opinion.  He didn’t look tough enough to compete in this world.  And in this year, of all years, Jack needed a team which was unified and at least competent.  He had to succeed this time -- his entire future depended on it; his fitness for the NHL would be watched during these next two years.  It was crucial that things remain solid and routine.  And now this little …  _ person _ , had turned up and was making things weird.  He’d placed the pie down on a nearby table, and was looking thoroughly disgusted and affronted as the boys around him demolished it.  This was irregular and unusual -- both things Jack did not want or need on his team.  Not this year.  He grimaced, hoping the kid wasn’t going to prove a costly liability.

Jack cleared his throat, refocused on the whole group, and tried again.  As the pie disappeared, so the attention of the players returned to him.  The small one was at least looking focused while he clutched the empty pie tin to his chest.  The others were vaguely paying attention as Jack ran through the week’s routine.  He nodded to Shitty, who handed out the leaflets Jack had prepared for each player, showing where each had to be - and when - every day of the week, as well as suggestions for training based on what Jack had gleaned about each player from their previous teams.  Ransom had complained, saying the whiteboard at Faber had all the required details, but Jack insisted each player needed his own chart.

The small one was reading it carefully, as if attempting to memorise the schedule right there and then.  Jack smiled.  Maybe he wouldn’t be a liability, after all.  

 

Jack changed his mind again when the kid fainted as they ran through a drill and a d-man sideswiped him briefly as he grabbed the puck.  And then when he did it again two practices later.  And at the practice after that.  The first game was coming up, the kid  _ was _ clearly a liability, and Jack could not understand why the coaches had put him on the team at all, let alone given him a scholarship.  If he couldn’t stop screwing around, and take the team seriously, then Jack didn’t want him on his team.  He had to win, they had to win -- and this little shit was getting in the way of that.

Jack’s worries merely intensified as the pre-season wore on.  The kid never managed to avoid dropping whenever anyone came at him, and none of the light-hearted chirps of the others about ‘making a play out of this’ helped Jack overcome his anger that his team was falling apart.  The competent, if pedestrian, team from the previous two years was gone, and in its wake was a team that had flashes of brilliance.  Ransom and Holster sparked off each other in a very satisfying way, and his own linemates could have moments of stunning energy where everything connected and they made play after play work for them.  Even Bittle had times when he flew over the ice, and spun away from oncoming players, with an ease that was almost uncanny.  

But between the moments of brilliance there were the long periods of frustration and irritation.  Periods where no-one seemed to have any connection on the ice, and everyone seemed to be playing an individual game which meant that no-one was playing at all well.  Jack included.  It stressed him that they couldn’t keep up the strong moments for long, and he yearned for the team he’d been part of last year.  It was a little boring, yes.  But it was predictable.  Predictable was good - you could work with it.  You could improve it, help it grow, work on its kinks.  Unpredictable … that was another story.  Unpredictable was impossible to work with, because you never knew what team you’d get at any given practice.  And Jack knew exactly where to lay the blame for the unpredictability that caused several spikes in his anxiety that were difficult to control and left him strained and exhausted.

And maybe that anxiety unstuck something in Jack, making him say some harsh things in the moment, and maybe he wasn’t proud of those things, but maybe the kid needed to hear them instead of the fawning praise about his speed and agility that everyone else seemed to heap on him.  Maybe he needed to realise that he had to take the game seriously.  Maybe the spike in anxiety that hit Jack afterwards -- and the guilt that wormed its way through his body whenever he thought about what he’d said -- would be worth it, if the kid would just … just learn something and settle down a bit.  It didn’t seem to work.  The kid still laughed far too much, baked far too much, danced and sang far too much, and spent too little time on his studies, and worse, _ far _ too little time on his game.  

So it was that Jack found himself yelling at the kid, for what felt like the millionth time, that if he couldn’t be bothered making an effort then he could get off the damn team.  He felt half guilty as he took in the scared and contrite face before him, and the shocked looks on the rest of the team, but it needed to be said.  Jack needed the team to give it their all, and this kid was just … well, he needed a wake up call; that was all.   
  


“Brah.  Brah.  You need to chill a bit with Bitty, man.  You’re scaring the poor kid.”

“I don’t need this right now, Shitty.”

“Jack.  I’m serious.  You need to pull your head in.  You’re the captain, and I get that it’s stressful for you.  But a scared team is not a good team, and it’s starting to be a problem.”

“Shitty.  This team is a mess, and I can’t have some kid waltzing around like it doesn’t mean anything.”

“You don’t seriously think he’s doing this on purpose, do you?  Look at the game against Yale, man.  The kid is talented.  He wants to win, he’s keen as hell to play well and help the team.  But … he has an issue.”

“An issue?”

“Yeah, brah.  A genuine psychological issue, a block.  He needs help, not some fucking asshole yelling at him.”

“I am not an asshole!”

“Maybe not -- but I’m not sure Bitty knows that.”

Jack’s quiet, ‘huh’ went unheard as Shitty retreated back through the bathroom to his own room, leaving Jack with whirling thoughts in his wake.  He thought back on everything he’d witnessed since Bittle became part of the team, and realised he’d gone in with a bit of a bias.  Since Bittle was so small and so … spinny and cheerful all the damn time, Jack had assumed he was playing around rather than taking everything seriously.  Seen through Shitty’s lens, though, it all came into focus.  If he had an issue, he wasn’t just screwing around to be funny.  If he had an issue, that could be dealt with.  An issue could be helped.  If, indeed, Bittle wasn’t playing around, then getting past the block could unlock a valuable team member.  Which meant … well, which meant Jack was damn well going to get the kid past the block.  If it killed him.

 

So started the early morning checking sessions.  At first, Jack assumed he could push Bittle the way he’d pushed his peewee team when they needed work on something.  He rushed into a gentle check, expecting the kid to push back.  But he dropped, quickly, to the ice, his breath coming in short panicked gasps and his body folded into itself.  Jack startled.  He recognised those symptoms.  It didn’t look exactly the way his own anxiety attacks felt, but it looked enough like them that Jack knew he had to do something.  Jack pulled back immediately with his hands up.  Then he talked Bittle through the problem, until he was at least smiling a little.

Slowly, over time and through many sessions, they worked out what Bittle needed to do, and slowly he improved.  He was never going to be someone who took checks easily, but he improved enough that just the idea of someone coming towards him didn’t cause him to faint.  Bittle was focused and determined -- everything Shitty had said he was.  Jack was ashamed of the way he’d treated him before the clinics started, and he made sure to compliment Bittle whenever he made improvements.  If the smiles he got in return made Jack feel happier than he had in a long time, well … it was a good feeling to help someone this way.

Unfortunately, things didn’t stay so good.  Jack worries never really disappeared and he could feel himself snapping sometimes, even when he didn’t mean to.  Then there was the part of him that jack could admit _was_ an asshole.  The part of him that was jealous of Bittle and his ability to make people like him.  He’d sailed into the Haus and their lives and just fit in.  Jack, who was only now, after two years, starting to feel like he had real friends who weren’t Shitty, hated himself for his thoughts.  But the better Bittle got at hockey, the worse his feelings became.  It got worse, much worse, when the kid got a lucky shot in at family weekend.  It was worse because Jack’s  _ father  _ complimented the kid, making Jack feel inadequate again.  His father, the one he always had trouble coaxing a compliment out of, was effusive in his praise of Bittle.  Bittle, who still looked petrified when someone came at him, the one who wanted to succeed, sure, the kid who baked things for fun and laughed far too much … Bittle got lucky.  Got a shot in with his eyes closed.  Then he got praise for it, like he’d done something brilliant.  This was supposed to be Jack’s year, he was supposed to be making progress, lighting up the game in order to gain the attention of the NHL scouts.   _ He _ was supposed to be the one making the brilliant plays, not some jumped up kid who had barely been playing for a few years.  Jack’s anxiety boiled in his chest as he thought about all the ways this kid could screw up the team, and with it Jack’s chances of success, his chances to prove to the world, to his dad, that he was good enough.

So he said some shit things.  Again.  And regretted them.  Again.  But it was too late; the damage had been done.  Bittle had stopped giving him shy smiles when they did checking practice, and had become very serious, very focused.  Which, technically, should have made Jack’s heart sing.  He was, after all, finally becoming the player Jack had always wanted him to be.  But, it turned out that Jack didn’t really want that player.  He wanted the Bittle who had opened up and warmed up to him.  The Bittle who was almost like a friend.  Jack had no idea how to get him back, but he tried as hard as he could to treat Bittle with kindness and respect.

 

“Jack,” Bittle said one day.  “Jack.  Why are you doing this?  Helping me, I mean.  It’s not like you have to, and I mean … I … I know I’m not the best player you have.  Oh, Lord, your time could be better spent on someone else.”

His eyes were shining, and Jack startled.  He’d hoped they were past this.  But then, maybe this was just the chance Jack had been looking for to try to restore the friendship he’d thought they’d been forging.

“Bittle.  You’re a good player, great even on the right day.  But you just have a little block.  Why wouldn’t I help you?”  Jack’s forehead creased in confusion.  Making the team better was the point, right?  Making Bittle better made the team better.  It was just logic.

“Oh, well.  I … I dunno.  I’ve never really felt like enough, you know?  I mean, what do I have to offer?”

Jack could feel his heart racing as he looked down into Bittle’s earnest face.  This … this was something he knew too intimately.  That Bittle -- sunny, hardworking Bittle -- felt this way was just plain wrong.  He looked at the genuine emotion and frustration in Bittle’s face, and something clicked in Jack’s brain.  He realised just how his own hangups might look from the outside.  He also realised that his own actions had probably had some part in making Bittle feel this way.  A sudden lump almost stopped his voice, and Jack cleared his throat.

“You have a lot to offer, Bittle,” he said, trying to keep his voice gentle.  “For starters, you’re the fastest one on the team and that’s not something to be sneezed at.”

Bittle laughed, a tiny, snorty giggle that seeped out round the hand clasped to his mouth.  His eyes brightened with mirth, and Jack had no idea what he’d said that caused this reaction, but warmth flooded his own chest and he felt lighter than he had in ages.

“‘Sneezed at’?  Lord, Jack Zimmermann, you will be the death of me.”

Smiling, Jack squeezed Bittle’s arm.  “I mean it.  You’re good.  The checking is getting so much better, and you’re really starting to make an impact in the team.”  Jack let his smile grow wider, then chirped, “don’t try to distract me from complimenting you.”

Bittle blushed and looked away, clearly rattled that Jack had seen his maneuver, correctly identified why he’d done it, and then called him on it, however jokingly.  He looked back up at Jack from under lowered lashes and Jack found himself charmed.  This kid … well, he wasn’t so bad after all.  Why had Jack ever thought he might be a liability?  He cleared his throat again, and turned Bittle in the direction of the door.

“You, uh.  You want to go get some coffee?  One of those sweet things you like?  You deserve it.”

Bittle’s smile this time was wide and genuine, and they headed outside together with Jack feeling as lighthearted as he had all year.  

 

Things began to improve then, on the team and in the Haus.  One day Bittle shyly, and with a lot of encouragement from Shitty -- who looked a lot like a stage parent cheering on his kid from the sidelines -- told the team that he was gay.  Which … made Jack’s heart freeze in a very uncomfortable way.  It reminded him too forcefully of Kenny, and his whispered confession when they were teens.  So Jack just gruffly gave what he was sure was an unconvincing smile and said all the trite things he felt he should say in situations like this, then left the room as quickly as he could.  

The memory of Bittle’s relieved face as the rest of the team patted him on the back, and Ransom and Holster got out their whiteboard (to ‘reconfigure our data in light of this new situation’) sent jealous shivers through Jack.  Jealous shivers that he tried to ignore the same way he tried to ignore the tendrils of anxiety which resurfaced as he sped into his bedroom.  It wasn’t the same.  It wasn’t.  Kenny still hadn’t told anyone publicly, after all.  Why should Jack?  It was one thing for Bittle, a player on a small college team, to say such things out loud.  It was quite another for Jack Zimmermann, son of bad Bob Zimmermann, and future NHL prospect, to do so.  Jack took a deep breath and steadied himself, trying to ground himself with the knowledge that no-one knew.  No-one needed to know.  He was  _ fine _ , and it would all be okay.  Kenny was still okay, and Jack  _ would _ be fine.  He would.

Around the same time, the coaches put Bittle onto Jack’s line.  The kid looked shocked, terrified but elated.  Jack felt … odd.  He had a sudden moment of clarity when the coaches told him, in all seriousness, that Bittle made him a better player.  He did feel more at ease when Bittle was playing alongside him in practice, but Jack had just assumed that was because he was happy that his team was actually making progress, showing the flashes of brilliance he’d seen in them earlier in the year.  But now that he thought about it, those times did all come when Bittle was there with him.  They had  _ something _ on the ice.  Maybe it was all the checking practices, maybe it was the time they spent together working on their moves.  But whatever it was, the coaches were right.  He did play better when Bittle was there.  

So, when Jack heard his team regaling Bittle with the terrifying stats about the opposition, Jack became very agitated.  Bittle looked worried, no - more like petrified, his teeth scraping rhythmically over his bottom lip and leaving it looking raw and red.  This was not going to help his team win today, Jack thought in desperation.  So he spoke up.

“Shut the hell up, guys.”

“Jack, brah.  What’s wrong?”

“What good will this do, huh?  What use is it to second guess the team we’re playing?”

“This is what we do.  We go over past games, we assess weaknesses.  Jack … this is normal.”

“Well, maybe it shouldn’t be!  Not right now, not before the game.  Right now we should be focused on our own game, not theirs.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack could see Bittle.  His stance was more open now, and he didn’t look as worried as he had while the others had been discussing the brutes on the other team.  As they moved to head out to the ice, Jack grabbed Bittle’s arm.

“You got this.  Okay?” he said gruffly.  “You’re fast, and those goons are slow.  You’ll get away from them easy.  Besides, I’ll head them off if they come near you.  Just focus on getting that puck and getting it to the goal.  Okay?”

Bittle nodded, swallowing.  He smiled at Jack, his eyes serious and anxious, but with determination in their depths.  Jack nodded once, encouragingly, then let his arm go and following his team onto the ice.

They won.  It was hard fought, but Bittle played well and successfully avoided all the force the opposition sent his way.  The feeling that had been sitting just behind Jack’s skin -- the fear that they wouldn’t be enough and that his shot would slip through his fingers again -- dissipated as the team surged together in joy at the win.  As he hugged Bittle, Jack felt almost calm.  For once it felt like Jack’s chances in the NHL were as close as they’d ever been.  He felt like he was finally getting somewhere again, that he could live up to his dad in some small way.

So when they clinched a playoff spot with another convincing win, and the guys asked him to join them at Jerry’s for a drink, Jack thought why the hell not?  He’d scored a hatty, Ransom and Holster were on fire, and Bittle had been such an asset in helping get the puck to Jack.  He felt happy for once, knew he’d done a good job.  Jack was even relaxed enough to have a beer with the team, which he only ever allowed himself when things were going well and he felt safe and secure.

Then the TV analysis started on the big screen.  At first, the things they were saying made knots squeeze Jack’s chest because here was someone outside of him, outside of his family and friends, saying he did well today.  He was the number one play.  There was a euphoria that came with hearing it officially.  But there was also a sense of disbelief -- a fear that it would all come crashing down.  And, of course, it did.  As Jack excused himself, trying to avoid Bittle’s pitying gaze, which he imagined was filled with judgement as well, he squeezed his hands into fists.  Not because he wanted to punch someone; that had never been Jack’s style.  But because he had to keep himself together.  Somehow.  He had to remain upright and functional until he got to his bedroom.  The knots pressing on his chest were insistent, and it took all Jack’s willpower to keep them at bay until he was alone.  Then he gave into it.

What if the guy was right?  Who in their right mind would want some washed up player like him when they could have any of the bright young things coming out of colleges and the juniors?  Why did he ever let himself believe he would be able to do this?  It was stupid - stupid and arrogant.  His fists still clenched together, Jack shook.  He couldn’t avoid the intrusive thoughts, the fear that he was nothing after all.  Even a hat-trick meant nothing.  It was an easy play in an easy game, and no GM worth their salt would want to take Jack on.  Not now.  He was just fooling himself.

The thoughts whirled round and round in circles until Jack fell into an uneasy sleep, filled with dreams of his team mocking him for ever thinking he had any talent, any chance at the life he’d always dreamed of.  He woke, gasping and sweating, and stared at his clock which was blinking red numbers telling him it was still the middle of the night.  Jack fell back onto the bed but the thoughts refused to budge.  He wished, for the first time in a very long time, that he could call his mother.  But it was 3am, and he knew she would be sleeping.  

The haus was still around him, and Jack forced himself back to sleep, but it was fitful -- the dreams returning and waking moments no respite because his brain kept telling him the dream people were right.  He didn’t deserve to play in the NHL.  It wasn’t enough.   _ He _ wasn’t enough.  So he had to prove himself more.   The next day, exhausted, Jack set about doing better. 

In the time before the playoffs, Jack pushed his team hard.  Harder than he’d pushed them since becoming captain.  They would retreat off the ice after each practice weary and spent, and the only reason they didn’t resent Jack, he knew, was because he pushed himself harder than he pushed any of them.  The pressure to do better, be better, consumed him and left the ‘hockey robot’ of legend.  Jack thought of nothing but hockey -- for once, even his studies slipped and he didn’t even notice.

By the time the playoff games started, Jack knew there was nothing more the team could do.  They had as much chance of success as the opposition and they had the talent and the ability to make it through.  He told the team as much as they waited for their first game.  Shitty hollered his approval and hugged Jack close.

“There ya go, Jacky boy.  You beaut.  We’re gonna put this one in the bag for you, cap.”

They did.  They won enough games to hang on to the last minute.  They were so close to the end goal that Jack could taste it. They had a chance right down to the wire.  The thing is, Jack knew the final play he asked Bittle to do was risky.  He knew it, but he genuinely believed in the moment that it would succeed and that he would have Bittle’s back.  Well, he was right on one count -- the play succeeded.  But as he watched Bittle’s head hit the ice and his helmet bounce away with a terrifying clanging sound, Jack knew that hockey wasn’t everything.  He’d risked his team mate, and Bittle had paid the price.

“Bitty,” he gasped as the world slowed around him.  He realised how much Bittle’s friendship had come to mean to him.  As Bittle got up and staggered off the ice and into the hands of the waiting doctor, Jack refocused.  But this time his mind was half on Bittle and what he’d almost cost his friend.  The concussion ruled Bittle out for the next round, and the team was eliminated soon after.  But Jack started to realise that didn’t really matter.  Yes, it hurt.  Yes, it made him second guess his choices as captain.  But, he knew they’d played as well as they could.  He knew they hadn’t given up without a fight.  His anxiety, for once, didn’t list all the ways in which he’d failed.  Instead, it focused on Bittle and how he was doing.  Jack found it a much more manageable stress -- Bittle was cheerful as ever, despite not being allowed on the ice at all for months, and he made sure that Jack knew, unequivocally, that he didn’t blame Jack at all.  

Bittle’s forgiveness, or rather his insistence that there was nothing to forgive, was a balm to Jack.  It caused him to reevaluate a lot of his own thoughts and feelings, and he came to realise that the pressure he put on himself wasn’t always necessary.  When he thought clearly, Jack knew he was the best the team had.  He knew he was a good prospect for the NHL, despite what certain ‘idiot analysts’ (thank you, Bittle) might say.  

This new line of thought was merely reproduced at the final banquet where the coaches announced that Jack was voted captain for the third year, and that this time it was unanimous.  He swallowed against a lump that had raised in his throat -- third time captains were almost unprecedented, and so were unanimous votes.  Which meant … well, which meant his team also didn’t hate him.  For all Jack felt like he had failed as captain, had failed to keep Bittle safe, had failed to take the team to glory -- the team didn’t see him that way.  Coupled with Bittle’s reassurances, Jack began to believe.  He began to believe that he could really do this.  

When he called his mother to tell her, she laughed.

“Well, of course, baby.  Why wouldn’t they?  You’re the hardest working player I’ve ever seen.  And I’m married to your father.”

“Maman!  You’re biased.”

“Maybe so, but that team of yours isn’t, and they chose you again.  You’re too hard on yourself, and I’m glad you’re finally realising it.”

“I think … I really actually think … that I might be able to do this, Maman.  Play in the NHL.”

“Oh, sweetheart.  I’ve always believed you could.  Your papa has always believed you could.  It’s so good to see  _ you _ believing in yourself.”

“Thanks, Maman.  It feels good.”

As Jack hung up the phone he knocked on what was to become Bittle’s door.  There was something he needed to say before he left for home.

“Jack!  Hello!” Bittle’s cheerful voice rang out as he opened the door.  “Mother I’ll call you back.”

Jack swallowed nervously.  He hadn’t meant to interrupt Bittle’s conversation.  He let Bittle’s chatter wash over him while he got his thoughts in some semblance of order.  Eventually, however, the pressing need to catch his flight caught up with him and he found himself almost yelling Bittle’s name to get his attention.

“Listen.  Before I left, I … I just wanted to make sure we’re cool … and that you knew … I’m sorry about that hit.”  Jack swallowed again.  Why was this so damn hard?  Bittle was looking at him with amusement, as if he found Jack’s halting confession funny.  Which, to be fair, it probably was.  It’s not like this was the first time Jack had tried to say this, after all.  He pressed on anyway.  “And after everything that happened this year you still voted for me.  I appreciate it.”  There.  It was said.  It was out there.  Bittle had voted for Jack as captain despite the many ways in which Jack had failed him, and Jack had finally managed to acknowledge what that meant to him.

Bittle looked up at him shyly.  “Jack.  Of course!  I mean it’s been  _ amazing _ playing with you … I can’t think of anyone else who I’d want to be captain.”

His heart feeling light, Jack smiled.  “Thanks, Bittle.”

They shared a few more pleasantries, and Jack made sure to remind Bittle one final time that he should look after himself, not put any strain on his body.  Jack tried to tell himself he was concerned for the wellbeing of his team, but he knew deep in his heart that he actually didn’t want to see his friend hurt himself even more.  He made a note to himself to see that Ransom and Holster did help Bittle with everything he needed, and that he’d contact Bittle over the summer himself to make sure he didn’t overexert himself.

As he looked back at Bittle, so sunny and happy in the hallway of the haus, looking like he belonged and must have always been a small figure hovering outside the door of Jack’s room, Jack couldn’t help one last chirp.

“Oh, and Bittle.  Before I forget.  This summer?  Eat more protein.”

Jack winked at Bittle as he headed downstairs, enjoying the mix of outrage and sheer amusement on his face.  It was with a spring in his step, and a smile on his lips, that Jack turned his face to the summer break.  For the first time in a long while, Jack felt like he wasn’t being pulled out of his skin.  He felt settled, calm.  The next year was important, but Jack believed.  He had this.  He could do it.  


End file.
